


Melting the Ice (I See)

by poisontaster



Series: Heart 'Verse [39]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Schmoop, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-27
Updated: 2006-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5977348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Year 17. Too much quiet was never a good thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Melting the Ice (I See)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to maygra and technosage for beta services.

  
_Let me fill your heart_  
Let me warm you all over  
Let me hear your laughter run through the water  
Let me fill your heart  
Let it blossom all over  
Like a petal burning the water 

_I'll spend the rest of my life walking through the rain_

_And that's the hardest part of it all for you_  
To live your life with nothing at all  
"The Hardest Part" by Erasure

 

Dean might have come late to this whole 'parenting' thing, but there was one lesson he'd learned fast and right away:

Too much quiet was never a good thing.

He'd been pretty soundly asleep but he felt himself lurching up anyway, a vague sense of panic in the back of his mind. He shook Sam awake at about the same time, ignoring Sam's feeble efforts to slap his hand away. "Sam. _Sam_."

"Whuzzat?" Sam mumbled, grabbing the nearest pillow to wad it over his head. Muffled, he said, "Go 'way."

Dean looked at the clock and then cocked his head, listening. It was after seven. The sky outside the window was still dark, but with a promise of light behind the clouds. Someone should be up by now. There should be the wheeze and whisper of the plumbing, the sound of loud, young feet clattering up and down the stairs and—depending on how loud they were—Mike's irritated yelling. And laughter. Oh, God, the laughter. But there was none of that.

"Sam," he said again urgently, groping for his cane with one hand and poking his brother in the back with the other. "Wake the fuck up. Something's wrong."

Those were the magic words. Sam stopped his half-hearted flailing and sat up, the pillow falling into his lap. They'd gotten deep into the nog last night and Sam's eyes were hardly visible beneath the mangled mop of his hair, but Dean was pretty sure they were still closed. "What's going on?"

"Listen," Dean said.

"I _am_ listening." Sam grumpily scratched his hair out of his face. In actuality, this made it a bigger mess than before. "What? It's fucking quiet for a change."

"For someone who got _spectacularly_ laid last night, you're really cranky, you know that?" Dean asked. "But, no. _Listen._ It's after seven and I don't hear anything."

Sam's eyes finally blinked all the way open and the hand not currently untangling his princessy locks slipped under the pillow for his knife. "Somebody should be up by now," he said, winning the Captain Obvious award for the day. And _now_ he looked worried.

Dean just sighed and humped his leg sideways out of the bed. It wasn't as difficult—or as stiff—as he was expecting. He wondered if that meant the pool was actually doing him some good. The pair of jeans he struggled into sure said so, hanging lower on his hips than they had at any time since he bought them. Even through his worry, Dean felt a little surge of pride. Then he got his gun.

Sam's hand slid up Dean's back as he went for the door. "I'll go first." The knife was tucked—with sheath, Dean noted, because he had a vested interest in that ass—down the back of Sam's also hastily put on jeans; he'd traded up for a Beretta. Dean thought about arguing, but his leg wasn't that good.

He remembered, abruptly and vividly, why they'd retired.

"Man, someone either better be dead or there'd better be coffee," Sam grumbled as he pushed back the pocket doors and peered through the stained glass into the rest of the house. " _With_ cream. You'd think Hari and Emma are cats the way they suck it up."

"You got some reason to think they're not?" Dean muttered and Sam whispered a laugh.

There was no one on the ground floor, though someone _had_ left a pot of coffee warming on the machine. Sam made a soft, pathetic little moaning noise in his throat and gave the pot a longing look, but they kept moving, sweeping through familiar rooms now made strange by the need to see them strategically. Sam looked out the windows to scan the yards, but they were as abandoned as the interior. The skin on the back of Dean's neck crawled.

He couldn't even remember the last time the house had been this still. Most of the kids had some kind of sleeping problems, whether it was nightmares, insomnia or just plain old-fashioned night-owlism. Hell, neither he nor Sam were any great shakes about sleeping through the night, when it came down to it. Seemed like there was _always_ somebody up, wandering around. And now, nothing. Nobody.

"You didn't happen to see 'Crotoan' cut into the paneling anywhere?" Sam growled under his breath as they made their way—slowly, thanks to Dean—up to the second floor and Dean knew they were thinking—remembering—the same thing.

Dean had thought about the possibility that something would come here, to their home. They'd made no friends in the spirit world and neither had anyone living here. But the burning gut-clench outrage that some mystical or supernatural fucker might have come here _into their home_ … Dean breathed, tried not to let his fingers tighten too much on the grip. Too tight was just as bad as too loose.

The upstairs was deserted as well. The beds were more-or-less made. Dean found that reassuring; no one had been snatched from their beds. But still, it was more than a little weird. After charging around the house for a while and not finding anything, both he and Sam started to feel a little stupid and—if possible—even more irritated.

"I guess we should pull out the journal or something," Dean offered. They were sitting on the stairs, Dean's leg out in front of him. The early morning work-out was making it throb dully, redly, hotly. He could tell already, today was going to suck and he fought the impulse to take one of the fireplace pokers to the Christmas tree blinking harmlessly in the living room.

"Yeah," Sam agreed without enthusiasm. He was a couple steps above Dean, his knee pressed to Dean's shoulder. Dean didn't complain, finger scratching idly at Sam's bare instep. Then Sam blew out his breath loudly and shoved up. "Fuck this. Before we do anything, I'm having some coffee."

He put out his hand to help Dean up and, though under other circumstances Dean would have just given him the stinkeye and struggled up on his own, Dean took it. "The thing is," Sam said, going down the remaining stairs just ahead of Dean (irritating but necessary), "I don't _feel_ like anything's wrong."

Dean grunted, concentrating more on where he put his feet than his powers of conversation.

"I mean, you'd think if something powerful enough to snatch up _everyone_ in the house without a fight or misplaced…." Sam flapped his hand, " _anything_ was going to come through, I'd sense _something_."

"Yeah." While Sam went for the hazelnut creamer crap he kept in the fridge, Dean went straight for the pot. Sam accused Dean regularly of doctoring his coffee with the girly stuff when Sam wasn't looking (not that Dean was admitting to anything) but Dean thought he'd rather cut off something vital than let Sam see any such thing and he was in a mood for black, anyway. There was a piece of paper shoved under the machine, slightly water spotted. "Yo. Sammy."

Sam was at his side almost instantly, looking down over his shoulder to read. The note was in Mike's ridiculously neat, fussy handwriting. It was even dated. It said:

> _So I know you won't get too far without the hi-octane. I hope you get this before you tear the house apart, because I am NOT cleaning up any messes you make. And neither is Ashe, so don't even try it. In fact, by now, we're all gone; me, the kids, Chance, Chelsea, Ashe…the whole enchilada. We're going on a road trip, God help us._
> 
> We'll be gone until just after New Year's, which leaves you two the house to yourself and almost two weeks of peace and quiet. Merry fucking Christmas and OH BOY, DO YOU GUYS OWE ME FOR THIS.
> 
> M.

Gobsmacked, Dean said, "Well, fuck me."

Sam put his arms around Dean from behind, smiled against Dean's neck and said, "Okay."

***

Point of fact, Sam _did_ fuck him right there and then, the shaking adrenaline that carried them through the search of the house melting into relief like tequila shots and an _insane_ horniness. Dean almost ripped the faucet out of the sink, hanging on, and the creamer was a casualty, swept from the counter by Dean's other flailing arm as he searched for a grip.

For as many sketchy, questionable places as they'd had sex, Dean couldn't believe how crazy-dirty this felt. He could raise his head and see the pool in its half-finished enclosure, the snowy wetness of their back yard. Sam thrust just a little too hard and Dean's head knocked into the cabinet's edge, still the carved old-lady cabinets that Ellen had put in years and years ago when she and her husband, Bart, had bought this place, smoothed and worn with age and time.

When he came, it was so sharp, so fucking _intense_ , he thought he was going to have an aneurism, moaning quiet and biting his lip hard until Sam leaned up and whispered darkly in his ear, "Shout, Dean. Go on and shout. Nobody to hear 'cept me 'n I like it."

Dean would've said he was halfway to done until Sam growled that in his ear, and then his body was twisting and convulsing all over again and Dean was damn near screaming while Sam fucked him harder and faster, crooning, "Yeah, yeah, yeah…" in Dean's ear before it dissolved into his own noises, gasping, choked.

Dean's legs—both the good and the bad—felt like they'd turned to jelly by the time Sam pulled out of him, slick and wet; he probably would've fallen, if not for the aforementioned death grip on the faucet and Sam's arms holding him steady until he could hook one of the kitchen chairs with his foot and drag it over.

"That was _awesome_ ," Dean said, once Sam had him all the way down and had gone for the now-lukewarm coffee like a dying man, even without his frilly creamer. "Let's do it again!"

The first couple days, it felt like they did nothing _but_ fuck. It was like Dean's birthday all over again, except with the added bonus of being _home_ and that kinky-filthy feeling of being naked and slutty in places that were normally populated with all manner of people who are already _far_ too nosy about his and Sam's sex life anyway.

Dean found that the couch in the living room was just as uncomfortable to screw on as it was to sit but the lounger thingie that they got from Goodwill last year was surprisingly plush and giving whether you were on top or the bottom. He found that Sam made the _best_ noises and wiggled like a Vegas showgirl when fucked against a washing machine on spin cycle. Doing it in the pool was just as great as he always imagined and a hell of a lot easier on his leg. Which Sam seemed to appreciate. A lot. Loudly and emphatically. A couple of times. Dean discovered pancake batter was not nearly as delicious as the pancakes themselves, but by the time they'd finished fighting and then fucking, neither one of them had the energy to actually _cook_. Syrup, however, was wonderful all by itself. Or, say, for example, licked off Sammy's skin. Slowly.

They shed regular mealtimes like snake skins and walked around in their shorts or nothing at all (at least until the sun went down, at any rate). Sam sort of put an end to that when the UPS guy turned out to be the UPS _gal_ , giggly and red-cheeked, but Dean felt he'd made his point and put his stamp on the joint, so _that_ was fine. Besides, jealous Sam was both a lot of fun to mess with and randy as all hell, so Dean thought he got the better end (ha!) of that deal. He'd never really stopped swearing, but for a little while, it felt good not to have to worry about fish-eye from Mike or Chance for every "cocksucker!" or "goddamn it!" that came out of his mouth.

It was sundown on the twenty-third and they were lounging half (or mostly) drunk in front of the fire, lit only by it and the carnival colors of the tree.

"Gimme th' bottle." Sam made feeble scratching gestures on the rug in Dean's general direction. "Hog."

"Fuck you, hog," Dean mumbled back, offended. He extended the arm holding the bottle of bourbon in Sam's direction anyway. "You're th' one…" Their fingers touched. Sam's fingertip caressed Dean's one mangled stump, electric cold against the sensitive nub. Dean took a breath. The air felt so hot. "Th' one…"

"The one what?" Sam took a big swig off the bottle and smacked his lips. When Dean didn't answer right away, Sam grunted. "Yeah, s'what I thought."

"M'not a hog," Dean growled back, slumping lower on the pile of pillows—both couch and bed—they'd piled up as a backrest.

"Whatever." Sam plunked the bottle down between them.

For a while, Dean watched the colors and shifting flames. He felt tired…which was only to be expected, given what they'd been up to, he guessed. But it wasn't tired like that, all warm and satisfied. He _was_ both warm and satisfied, granted, but…

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"You sleepin'?"

Sam laughed. "Nah. M'drunk."

Dean snorted, turned carefully on his side. "Me too." Sam was watching him, his eyes bright and shiny in the firelight, but infinitely dark behind the shine. His hair looked messy and soft and Dean was soused enough that he let himself reach for it, tangle his fingers in the strands. Sam made a little noise sorta like a cat purring and pushed himself into it, but didn't close his eyes like he normally would've done.

"Sammy?" Dean said again.

"Yeah?" Sam's voice is husky, gravelly and soft. Kinda like Sam himself.

"Our house is really big."

Sam laughed again.

"You laughing at me?" Dean scowled and batted the fingers in Sam's hair at his head instead. There wasn't enough room for Sam to duck aside, but he tried.

"Naw, Dean. I'm not laughing at you." Sam, always cold, had the lion's share of blankets and he humped a little closer to Dean, like an almost seven-foot caterpillar. Dean tried not to think about the bad memories _that_ conjured up (don't ask), fumbling instead for his train of thought. "Yeah, our house is pretty big."

"And quiet," Dean added.

"That too," Sam agreed. "Right now, anyway."

"Can't sleep," Dean admitted, something he'd been holding in the back of his mind all this time. "I keep tryin' and then I hear how quiet it is and then I wake up, feeling like something's wrong."

"Okay, but nothing's wrong, Dean." Sam reached out and put his fingers over the hand Dean had lying on the carpet.

Dean sighed and sprawled backwards, onto his back. As usual, Sam wasn't listening to him. "I don't like it," he said. "S' _unnatural_."

Sam sighed too. "Well, I'm afraid we're stuck with it until…oh."

"'Oh', what?" Dean demanded, not sure if he was more irritated that Sam wasn't understanding him or by the thought that he might.

"You miss the kids," Sam said, sounding amazed.

Dean scoffed and half-sat up, making a grab for the bottle. Sam got there a second after Dean, curling his hand over Dean's and preventing him from putting the bottle to his lips.

"You. Miss. The kids," Sam said again and now he was grinning. Dean was ready to either smack him or fuck him. In a minute. When he was a little less dizzy.

"Whatthefuckever," Dean said and stopped trying to pull the bottle to him. Eventually, Sam would get tired.

Sam let him go abruptly and flopped back on the pillows with a loud thump. He muttered something.

"What?" Dean turned back towards him, shoving some of the pillows out of the way. "What?"

"I _said_ I…  Sorta. Kinda. Miss them too.," Sam said, not meeting Dean's eyes.

Dean started laughing, jabbing one finger accusingly at his brother. "Such a _girl_ , Sammich." He mimed crying. "Oh, Dean, I _miss_ them," he warbled.

"You said it first!" Sam said and threw down the gauntlet. Or really, it was more like hitting Dean in the face with one of the pillows, but there was no way Dean could let that act of aggression stand. Especially when it was the leaky down pillow and Dean got some feathers in his mouth.

"Oh, _bitch_ ," Dean crowed and pounced.

Fifteen minutes later, they were both laid out, sweating, panting and cursing and Sam said, "Mike's going to kill us for getting bourbon on the rug."

"Oh, God," Dean said, and covered his face with his arm. He wondered if Sam could float him off the ground, get airflow on both sides of his body. "It was _your_ fault! Your long, stupid knees."

"First, my _knees_ are not long, you moron." Sam retorted. "Second…ugh…I don't think I'm nearly drunk enough anymore. An' and third, he likes you better," Sam said, which—for all his college education—was no kind of logic at all.

"That's not saying much," Dean answered. "He hits harder when he likes you."

"Maybe Ashe could get it out. Before he notices?"

"Dude. Mike totally has superhuman senses for this shit. I say we blame it on the kids."

Sam nodded. "Good plan." There was a lull and then Sam was rolling over him like a tsunami, all hot, slick skin and lazy, drunk smiles. "So are we calling the kids or what?"

"What, tell them to come back?"

Sam nodded. "They could probably be back in time for Christmas."

Dean would've teased him about looking so eager if he wasn't sorta (just a little, mind you) excited at the prospect himself. Last Christmas, they'd had a huge war game and he, Sam and Chelsea had defended their fort against all comers and with great ruthlessness. Mike's mother, Joanna, put together a _masterful_ fucking snowball and threw like she was trying out for the local farm team. Their mutual funerals had been celebrated with lots of food and Mike's wicked-evil spiked cider and Dean had gotten soundly laid every night for the next week. It had been _epic_.

On the other hand, the minute The Wild Bunch returned from walkabout, all of this—lazing around, doing nothing, being naked and screwing around whenever they wanted—would come to an abrupt and screeching halt.

Dean reached up and bracketed Sam's neck between his thumbs, massaging the back of Sam's neck. "Later," he said and saw Sam's eyes light and shine without the benefit of any outside source.

***

"Oh, _thank God_ ," Mike said, his relief clear even through the tinniness of the speakerphone. "'Cause I swear, I was going to kill some young juvenile delinquent just about any second now."

"Well, now you won't have to," Sam said. He looked at Dean and his dimples deepened as his grin widened. "How soon can you get here?"

"Dude. We'll drive through the _night_ ," Mike declared. "We'll be there bright and early Christmas morning." There was a pause, in which Dean could hear the kids in the background, shrieking like seagulls. Then Mike said suspiciously, "You know that you're not getting anything else for Christmas, right? I mean, this was it. And you both still _totally_ owe me."

Sam rolled his eyes and Dean laughed. "Yeah, dude, we know. We totally owe you. Just get here."

"Already on our way." Mike hung up.

Dean bumped Sam with his shoulder. Sam jostled back and they grinned. "C'mon." Dean looped an arm around Sammy's neck, pulling him in close. "Before they get here…let's make some noise." 


End file.
